


The Door In Petrex’s Quarters

by ckret2



Series: TFSpeedwriting Prompts [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Shattered Glass
Genre: Abuse, Abusive Relationships, Angst, Community: tf-speedwriting, Hurt No Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-05 16:13:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15867165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ckret2/pseuds/ckret2
Summary: They say that Petrex, leader of the Autobot Justice Division, can’t feel love. Petrex prefers it that way. Or: how Prowl tamed his pet scientist. (IDW Shattered Glass)





	The Door In Petrex’s Quarters

**Author's Note:**

> So there’s a cool new blog on Tumblr called [tfspeedwriting](http://tfspeedwriting.tumblr.com) where they post a bunch of prompts on Saturday and you choose one and writing something! There’s basically no rule except that you have to do it in under two hours. So anyway this took me about four hours, which were spread out over a total of ten hours. 
> 
> I’m good at this game. 
> 
> Prompt: 8/25, "Pick a music playlist on a device of your choice. The second line of the third song is your prompt." My song: “Song 3”—I swear the title’s a coincidence—by Stone Sour: “So I’ll keep you close, and keep my secret safe.”

They say there’s a doorway in Petrex’s private quarters where his berth is supposed to be.

It’s an empty metal doorframe. The space where there should be a door is filled by cement mixed with strange, dark, multicolor rubble. They say that Petrex sleeps on it, curled up on his side, a hand pressed against the surface of the shut doorway like he wants to press through to the other side.

They say the door still works. They say it goes somewhere. They say all you have to do is turn it on.

They say a lot of things about Petrex.

They say the reason that he wears a cold white Autobrand-shaped mask is because he has a cold white Autobrand-shaped face underneath, and that he’d rather people think he’s hiding his expressions than let them know he doesn’t have any expressions at all. He is as icy, and as hard, and as unmovable, and as implacable as marble; and Terminus save your ember if you dare try to chip that marble.

They say that nobody has ever joined the Autobot Justice Division willingly—nobody except for Petrex, its founder, its leader, and its symbol. They say that every member of the Autobot Justice Division is someone who tried to flee or betray the Autobots, but who had potential, had a  _use_ ; and so, as their punishment, instead of adding them to the AJD’s list for retribution, Petrex added them to the AJD itself, chained them in service to himself, and turned them into essential cogs in the machine that grinds up other criminals and turncoats.

They say he’s not a person, but a drone, a machine designed for order and logic and laws, capable only of understanding emotions in a theoretical sense, and then only far enough to determine how he might make use of them.

Petrex doesn’t deny anything anyone says about him.

* * *

“Mesothulas. Mesothulas!”

Mesothulas started, almost dropping his welder. Terminus below, he wasn’t expecting Prowl so soon—he wasn’t supposed to come for another two weeks, was he? Why was he early? Had something gone wrong, had his latest offering malfunctioned? Part of him hoped desperately that it had; the rest of him dreaded the consequences of such a failure. Maybe Prowl had forgotten their schedule and come early? Mesothulas had never known him to do so before, but oh, if he had, if he was expecting Mesothulas’s next work to be done  _today_  and it wasn't— Or, even worse, what if Prowl  _was_  right on time, what if  _Mesothulas_  had forgotten the schedule—

“I’m here!” He dropped the welder to the floor, ran for the stairs to the lab entryway, skidded an about face to go turn off the welder, and sprinted for the stairs—woe to him if he kept Prowl waiting a second too long. “I’m here, I’m here, I—I’m so sorry, Prowl, I didn’t know you were coming. I was working, I’m sorry.”

Prowl was standing, waiting, in the middle of the entryway. (Ostaros was so close to him, just a few feet to Prowl’s left. Mesothulas’s plating crawled—he shouldn’t have left Ostaros out in the open like that. What if Prowl spotted him, decided after all that work that he didn’t like the result? If anything happened to him—) His helmet was already off, tucked under one arm, and his red optics were so bright they were pink, nearly the same shade as Mesothulas’s armor. Was he mad or happy? Mesothulas couldn’t tell from the top of the stairs.

“I should hope you were working,” Prowl said. “You’ve only got a couple of weeks left to finish the guilt extractor.” So Mesothulas hadn’t forgotten their schedule—that was a relief. But then why was he here?

“Yes, I know, I—I’m right on schedule, it’ll be done in time.” He stopped at the bottom of the stairs, and waited, his heels pressed up against the bottom step, not taking a step closer.

And then Prowl walked toward him. Mesothulas’s ember jumped into his throat. The way Prowl moved—even in armor—Mesothulas could practically visualize how his joints moved underneath it. There was such control, such confidence, such precision in his motions; he radiated such strength that Mesothulas felt weaker just for being in his presence. Everything Prowl did made him feel weaker. His fuel tank fluttered, his ember guttered, his fans sputtered.

When he was alone, he told himself that it was fear—very  _rational_  fear, for more than once he and his slipped schedule had been on the receiving end of the infamous wrath of the Autobot Justice Division’s Petrex.

(“I’ll teach you to keep on schedule,” Prowl had said before; and it was both an indulgent offer to take him under his wing and a threat. “Every cog ticks in time around me. I make sure of it.”)

Yes—Mesothulas told himself the weakness he felt around Prowl was born of fear. But when he was in Prowl’s presence, he knew that was only half true.

When he was with Prowl, he was almost desperate to impress him.

Words tumbled out of him: “I'm—I’m almost done with the guilt extractor, actually. Ahead of schedule.” It was risky business to tell Prowl when he was ahead of schedule. On the one hand, yes, he’d be immediately gratified with Prowl’s approval—and  _oh,_  when Prowl approved of him, it was heavenly. For a moment, on the timepiece that was Prowl’s carefully-wound life, Mesothulas was a jewel mounted in the center of its face, sparkling in the light of Prowl’s delight. But Prowl never forgot a promise; and when Mesothulas promised a faster delivery, Prowl updated his expectations accordingly. If he fell behind again, it meant Prowl’s wrath was twice as hot; because now, not only had he failed to meet Prowl’s schedule, he’d also lied about getting ahead and maliciously stolen some of Prowl’s approval.

(So Prowl made him feel, anyway. Sometimes Mesothulas nearly believed it.)

But the way Prowl’s optics lit up made Mesothulas immediately forget the consequences. The consequences would come later. Today—now—Prowl’s arms were outstretched, and he said, voice a little louder, “That’s wonderful!” Prowl’s tone of voice never changed; it only got louder or softer, and either direction could be good or bad; but whichever direction it went, it could make Mesothulas’s ember flicker with fear or blaze with joy and longing for more. “I can expect it sooner, then. Would you say by the end of the week.”

Without stopping to think, Mesothulas said, “Without a doubt,” and immediately felt faint; although he wasn’t sure whether it was from the monumental scale of this promise, or from the way Prowl’s arms wrapped around him: one pressed to his upper back, pulling Mesothulas’s face against the chest of his armor; and one pressed lower on his back, so suggestively low that Mesothulas’s armor burned where Prowl’s fingers touched him. Mesothulas’s own fingers burned as well, itching with the urge to wrap his arms around the thick waist of Prowl’s rad suit—but to do so without explicit permission was dangerous. Mesothulas had courted enough danger by promising the guilt extractor so soon.

“Good,” Prowl said—his voice was so soft now, and Mesothulas’s legs were weak. “I’ll hold you to it.”

Mesothulas’s ember filled with dread, and he wanted even more to wrap himself around Prowl—not just physically, but spiritually, to bind himself to his… to his perverse muse, the walking inspiration for all the most wondrous things he’d ever created.

“But that’s not what I’m here about.”

… And the most horrible things. He tensed with the urge to pull back, but couldn’t. Not until Prowl was ready to let him go.

“Oh, I've—” Mesothulas spoke quickly, “—I’ve been working on another project too, since I’m getting so far ahead on the guilt extractor—you’ll be pleased, I’m sure—it’s the one you thought up, to make use of all those scraps of reality I’ve got sitting around—”

“I’m sure I will be pleased.” Prowl finally let go, and stepped back, and Mesothulas wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or not. “But that’s not what I’m here for, either.” His head dipped down slightly, and not for the first time Mesothulas marveled through his fear at how much Prowl could express through nothing but the tilt of his head and the way his gaze came through his mask. “And I know a distraction when I hear it.”

“I—I’m sorry, I just thought you’d want to—”

“Mesothulas.”

“Yes! Forgive me! Y-you were saying? You’re here about—?”

“Carpessa.”

Mesothulas’s fuel tank twisted. He had heard of the neutral city. He’d never been there before. He had no connection to it. Prowl had never mentioned it before. Mesothulas knew exactly what happened to it. “Th… The bomb…?”

“Worked flawlessly,” Prowl said, and the bottom of Mesothulas’s twisted fuel tank dropped out completely. “I don’t know how you managed to cobble together a bomb out of pathetic Decepticon parts that has such explosive capacity, and yet can still be mistaken for something they made—but I must hand it to you, everyone was fooled. Even the Prime is marveling at their unanticipated savagery. This will throttle their chances to get any interstellar allies rallying behind their cause, when they can’t play the poor innocent victims. A job well done, Mesothulas. For the most part.”

Every word was an icicle through Mesothulas’s ember. It took him several tries to choke out the word, “S-survivors?”

Prowl hesitated. “Too many,” he said. “There were less than fifteen hundred fatalities. That’s why I’m here, to discuss my requirements for the next model. Which I’d like you to get to work on as soon as possible. I was going to give you an extension on the guilt extractor so you could begin to work on the bomb immediately, but if you think you can be done in a week, then you can finish it first and get to work on the next bomb—”

“No.”

He hadn’t planned it. He hadn’t meant to say it. And if he had the choice, he’d rather throw himself on Terminus’s teeth than spend one more nanosecond watching in horror as Prowl’s head slowly tilted down, and his optics blazed brighter.

Quietly, Prowl said, “No.”

For a moment, the lab was so quiet, Mesothulas could hear Ostaros’s vents cycling air. Ostaros. Never mind what Prowl might do to him—what might he do to  _Ostaros?_  Prowl could rip Mesothulas to shreds, but the mere thought of him scratching Ostaros’s soft paint, the enamel hadn’t even cured yet—

“Well,” Prowl said, just as quietly, “if you’d rather keep to the original schedule, then—take the extension on the guilt extractor, and work on it and the bomb simultaneously…”

For a moment, the heavens opened up, a beam of light shone down on Prowl, and a holy chorus played. Prowl didn’t offer second chances.  _Never._  The Autobot Justice Division culled and amputated all limbs of the Autobot Army that no longer served what Petrex considered to be their appropriate purpose. Weakness was to be eradicated. Mesothulas should have been honored to be so indulged after wavering from the path Prowl had assigned him. All he had to do was accept it, and get back to work. Continue singing the songs his muse wrote for him. All would be well and beautiful, and if Mesothulas was good, every once in a while Prowl would touch him as kindly as he had a moment ago.

And there would be more Carpessas.

No. No, he couldn’t, not again. Damn whatever Prowl might do to him—to them—oh, Ostaros, Mesothulas is so sorry—but Mesothulas and Ostaros were only two people. How many had died in Carpessa? He couldn’t let it happen again.

His voice was barely a whisper. “I can’t.”

Prowl’s optics flashed brighter, and Mesothulas flinched. “Excuse me.” Yet another chance to correct his errant wording. Mesothulas was drowning in indulgences today. He wondered if Prowl had ever before been so lenient with anyone else. If he was smart, he’d take this chance.

But Carpessa. “Forgive me, I’m sorry, I—”

Prowl lunged forward, seizing him by the collar of his chestplate, and Mesothulas cried out, nearly sobbing. “You’ve always been so obedient,” he hissed. “You’ve done your job so well. It’s what I like so much about you.” (Even now, ready to die, Mesothulas’s ember blazed brighter at the praise. Terminus, Terminus, Mesothulas would do anything for Prowl—not just out of fear— _but he couldn’t do this._  Over a thousand lives were already on his hands.) “After all that, you haven’t suddenly developed a streak of naughtiness, have you.”

“No! Never!” Mesothulas grabbed at Prowl’s gauntleted hand. “I—I’m still useful to you, I swear! I can build you more troops—reliable troops—without waiting for Terminus to reawaken—”

“Surely you’re not referring to your vapid pet project that smiled at me when I came in.”

“He’s not done. When he’s finished—”

“I asked for a  _bomb!_ ” He shook Mesothulas to emphasize the word. This time Mesothulas did sob.

“Wh-w-what about the guilt extractor? Or—or the project with the reality scraps? I’ve stitched it into a serviceable prison, I—I could show—”

Prowl shook Mesothulas again, and he fell silent. But Prowl said nothing. It was more terrifying than anything he might have said. Even a death sentence would end the suspense.

But finally—voice back at its usual volume—he said, “Show me.”

Surely, no one in all of Cybertronian history had been shown as much mercy as the merciless Prowl had shown to Mesothulas today. “Oh—th-thank you—you’ll be so pleased, I’m sure of—”

“Just move.” Prowl let go of Mesothulas, and shoved him backwards. He tripped backwards on the stairs, crashed down, and for a moment in his panic actually tried to clamber up them backwards on his hands and heels before he managed to roll over and rush to his feet.

“This way!” He took the stairs two at a time, and heard Prowl following heavily behind.

He had to get out. He couldn’t stay here, not like this. This would only work as a distraction, and Mesothulas couldn’t risk Ostaros’s life again. He’d done it in the spur of the moment, but next time he’d be weak, he knew it. It wouldn’t be long before Prowl figured out he could get whatever he wanted if he threatened Ostaros.

He’d get through this. He’d hand over his prison if Prowl asked for it. And then he and Ostaros had to disappear.

“I call it the Noisemaze. It's—I-it's—” He’d had a description of it he’d been working on, trying to figure out how to convey what it was while leaving out all the words like  _horrifying_  and  _monstrous_  and  _unconscionable,_  all the little descriptors that Prowl didn’t like to hear Mesothulas say; but the words failed him now, and all he could say about it was, “it induces sensory overload.”

“Is that it.”

“ _Extreme_  sensory overload,” Mesothulas protested. Keep talking, keep talking, impress him. “The kind that—that completely fills your RAM. You can’t think through it. It destroys all higher rational thought.” He entered the room where he’d been working on the Noisemaze, looked around for something other than the doorframe to focus on—there was the welder he’d discarded, he should pick it up—and tried not to think about whether offering Prowl this torture prison was any less evil than bombing civilians. At least a bomb was quick. (Evil, that was what it was—that was what he was, now—he’d done evil. He’d done evil for Prowl.)

“How painful.”

“I can think of nothing more painful.” He set the welder on a workbench, and climbed up the two-step pedestal so he could flip the switch on the side of the frame. A hum, and the shadows of the room were stirred with soft, moving turquoise and orange lights. “It's—unending torment. It skips straight past the more fragile vectors for pain—limbs, nerves, all of them are things that can be destroyed, turned off, or burned out. But the Noisemaze attacks your mind directly. It harms you through your senses without harming your senses. Nothing you can do will turn off or block the barrage except destroying your own senses,  _all_  of them—but the Noisemaze would leave your mind too addled and overloaded on pain to even think of such a thing.” It wasn’t the description he’d meant to go for, but he was fairly certain he’d left out any words that would make Prowl tetchy. Prowl didn’t care how  _awful_  it sounded, as long as Mesothulas didn’t imply that to do it was  _wrong_.

Prowl ambled around it, examining the controls. “And it’s finished, you say. You certainly showed initiative.”

“Well—the hardware used to access it needs some refining—the prototype is practically held together with hot glue and scotch tape—but the Noisemaze itself, it’ll hold together indefinitely.” He leaned an elbow on the doorframe to gaze into the Noisemaze. The landscape shifted and the sky spun, and even with the thin membrane of the doorway separating him from the maze, watching it undulate and roil made him dizzy. How many would Prowl put in here? Maybe he could find a way later to steal it back. Once he and Ostaros were out of here—he could get Ostaros with one of the neutral populations fleeing the planet, he could join the Decepticons, use his inventing abilities and knowledge of Prowl for good—

He heard Prowl climbing the doorframe’s pedestal, right behind him; and yet, he still flinched when Prowl’s arms wrapped, slowly, gently, around his waist. “It’s beautiful.” Prowl’s voice was a whisper; and his fingertips grazed across Mesothulas’s stomach so softly, so tenderly, it almost made him cry. “The perfect prison for the Autobot Justice Division’s needs. The ultimate tool for reform—destroy their mind and remake it.”

Mesothulas’s abdominal armor trembled under Prowl’s touches, and the Noisemaze spun nauseatingly before his optics. Oh Prowl, love him, praise him, use him, keep holding him just like that. Mesothulas couldn’t leave, he couldn’t leave. He’d get Ostaros away and bear the punishment for it, but he couldn’t leave. “Is—is th… I didn’t think the AJD focused on reform? Just punishment?”

“We reform a few,” Prowl said. “The few cogs that aren’t too broken or too dull to be of use, but rather would help the Autobot machine tick more efficiently, if only the rough edges could be sanded smooth.” One hand grazed Mesothulas’s waist, leaving a path of tingling light in its wake as it languidly circled around to the small of his back. “The ones like you.”

Mesothulas’s spark froze. “Wha—?”

He tried to twist at the exact moment Prowl shoved him. He grabbed Prowl’s gauntleted wrist. “ _Prowl!_ ” He hung by one hand and the tip of one foot in reality; his other arm and leg wheeled wildly in the Noisemaze, trying to help him keep balance, but he couldn’t even tell which direction he was spinning them. A dozen directions at once. Prowl’s mask melted and twisted in front of his optics. “Please! Don't— I— Take me— Ostaros—”

“When you get out,” it looked like the Autobrand had melted onto Prowl’s face, like it moved and shifted with his words, like he spoke through its mouth, “I expect your head to be empty of everything except thoughts of obeying me. If your Noisemaze works as well as you say, that should be no problem.”

“No, no, no no no no—” He managed to get his other hand back through the portal, and the tip of his other foot, and he grabbed Prowl’s hand. Prowl’s optics blazed bright, the same pink as Mesothulas’s armor. (Was it still pink? He couldn’t see himself anymore, he was turning black, only his hands and the tips of his feet still looked pink.) “Please.” He squeezed Prowl’s hand. “ _Please._ ”

Prowl stared at him, even as the edges of his face started to fall apart. And then he squeezed Mesothulas’s hand back. Hope surged. Was he reconsidering? He was going to pull Mesothulas back in, this had just been to scare him, he still had one more chance—

“When you get out, you’re going to make me an army, Mesothulas. Just like Ostaros.” With his free hand, Prowl unlatched his gauntlet. It slid off and Mesothulas tumbled into madness.

* * *

The lab was dusty; the lights were out. Everything that Prowl could find an off switch for had been shut down months ago; everything he couldn’t, had been left to run or burn out. Something had exploded. A couple of wings of the lab were rubble, now. Radiation from outside leaked in through a destroyed wall. Prowl had sealed all the doors he could between here and there, but he still wouldn’t dare so much as take off his rad suit’s helmet inside the lab.

A second suit was settled against the wall, waiting for a passenger, as Prowl ascended the pedestal to the Noisemaze’s doorframe. Six months was long enough. Mesothulas was ready to come back.

Prowl pulled the lever to open the door.

Nothing happened.

He turned it off, and back on. And again. And again, more forcefully. “No.” He looked down, getting off the pedestal, dropping to his knees to check the power cables. He grabbed every point at which they connected and twisted them together, tight, making sure the connections were secure. He risked exposing a sliver of armor under one gauntlet so he could hold his wrist against the cable, checking to make sure he could detect a flowing EM field through it. He latched his gauntlet back in place, and walked up to the doorframe again, to flip the switch one more time.

Sparks flew from the frame. Prowl stumbled back as something popped, and smoke spewed from behind the switch. “No!” He waved the smoke away and stormed up to the frame again, flipping the switch over, and over, and over. “No, no, no—” his voice got louder with every word, “—give him back, give him back. This is incarceration, not an execution!”

Nothing. He waved an arm wildly through the doorframe, ducked through it, quickly examined the doorframe from the other side, circled around it, circled around it faster. “No! Dammit, he's—he’s mine, he's—give him back! Give him back to me!” He grabbed the frame, shook it—the lever coughed out a sad puff of smoke—and he leaned through it again. “Mesothulas!” As though the Noisemaze was still right through the doorway. “Mesothulas!” As though he could reach him from here, if only he was loud enough.

There was silence in the abandoned lab.

Prowl’s hand slid off the doorframe. He dropped to his knees in the middle of the dead portal to the Noisemaze, cradled his head in his hands, and rocked back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

* * *

They say that the doorway in Petrex’s room goes somewhere—or it would, if only somebody knew how to turn it on again. They say that it’s a prison; they say he keeps something terrible locked away, and woe to anyone who’s there when he unlocks it. They say that when Petrex sleeps on his doorway, hand pressed to its cement-and-rubble surface, sometimes something on the other side will scratch at it, desperate to get out; and sometimes, in his sleep, Petrex will scratch back.

They say many things about Petrex. A few of them are true.

Here’s what they don’t say about Petrex, but perhaps they should: he is icy, and hard, and unmovable, and implacable in public; but in private, he screams, he rages, he cackles, he dances, hot and explosive as a fire raging through a fuel refinery. You can see his optics behind his mask, wide and wild and red, but sometimes they’re white-hot, and at those times his mask doesn’t look icy but white-hot too. Here’s what else they don’t say: nobody has ever joined the Autobot Justice Division willingly; and most of those who join are criminals and turncoats that Petrex has reassigned to more important functions; but a few, a few are those who he has not chained to himself with invisible ununtrium links, but rather tied to himself with sinewy red threads. A few are those that he’s loved too much to ever let escape.

Nobody says that about Petrex because nobody knows that he  _can_  feel love.

Petrex prefers it that way.

* * *

“What’s the point of all this, Tarantulas.”

Even when Prowl was on the ground and Tarantulas—what a stupid name, a grotesque alien name for an animal, a name that clattered and chattered against the back of Prowl’s teeth, t-t-t—Tarantulas was pulled up high, huddling like a fearful creature against the wall—even at this range, Prowl had mastered the art of tilting his head just so, so that the way his mask framed his optics made it look like he was glaring down at Tarantulas. And he  _was_ glaring down at Tarantulas. Because no matter what a putrid beast he’d made of himself, no matter what a lowly bug he was now compared to Prowl, no matter all Prowl had achieved or all the power he’d amassed or all the soldiers at his beck and call—Autobot and Decepticon alike, now—the truth was, Tarantulas had blackmail, and Tarantulas had an invisible army, and Tarantulas had a prison in a pocket dimension where he’d trapped Prowl and where nobody knew how to find Prowl—and Prowl was terrified. And he would never, ever let Tarantulas know that.

“The point?” Tarantulas drew back, visibly surprised, and Prowl was pleased by his confusion even if he didn’t understand it. “I—Isn’t it obvious?”

“As obvious as you are pink.” Tarantulas wasn’t pink, anymore. He was black, all but for red biolights and the cotton candy pink on his feet and the filthy fuzzy tips of his new spidery limbs. Tarantulas flinched, looking down, self-consciously running a—it wasn’t a hand, was it?—a hairy sausage over the black fur on one thigh, and Prowl made note of the insecurity to exploit later. “So what is this. Explain yourself.”

“This is…” For a moment, Tarantulas wilted, visibly bewildered. “This is… what you  _asked_  me for.”

Prowl stared at him, just as bewildered but much less visibly. “Explain more.”

“You… you told me to empty my thoughts of everything, except obeying you.” Tarantulas crept down the wall, his many legs squirming agitatedly. “You told me when I got out, I’d make you an army. And I—I  _have_. I  _am._ ”

Prowl stared at Tarantulas, as he lowered himself back to floor level. “You don’t mean the Chimeracons. I thought they forced you to make their meat suits.” The damage they’d left Tarantulas with was still visible, the melted and matted fur, the breaks in two of his spider legs. Of all the mysterious affairs surrounding Prowl’s kidnapping, Prowl still couldn’t figure out why, when Tarantulas commanded the Noisemaze and could shrink to the point of invisibility, he had put up with their abuses. Perhaps Prowl had trained him to tolerate too much. “They’ve already kidnapped me. They’d have tried to kill me if you hadn’t intervened. What kind of army is that.”

And once on the floor, Tarantulas  _kept_  lowering himself, kneeling at Prowl’s feet. “I had to let them use me, to get the resources I needed to get close to  _you_. They’re irrelevant—they’re only the start. Now that I’ve perfected the technology, I—I can pick up where I left off with Ostaros—y-you remember Ostaros, don’t you?—just like you wanted. Making your army from scratch. Yours to do with as you please—overthrow the Prime, vanquish the Decepticons, reorder Cybertron to your specifications—all yours, Prowl. All of it. All—all of me.” Prowl’s ember leapt into his throat.

So he grabbed Tarantulas’s. “Don’t play with me.”

Tarantulas flinched, but he didn’t even try to pull back. “I’m not.” His voice was shaky—Prowl couldn’t see the fear on his face, he didn’t know how to make sense of his new features yet, but he could hear it. “I’m not, I would never. I—Prowl, you're—you’re all I thought about in the Noisemaze. When I could think. I—I was wrong to challenge your orders. I’m  _sorry._  You’re everything to me. You’re my muse, my inspiration, my life, I—I’m  _yours_. Anything you want from me, it’s yours.”

Prowl stared at him. And swallowed hard, trying to put his ember back where it belonged. He squeezed tighter. Tarantulas’s visor widened, but he didn’t even grab at Prowl’s hand.

“Anything.”

“Anything,” Tarantulas whispered. It was the most beautiful word Prowl had ever heard.

And funny. Because Prowl remembered how it had been “anything” before, too—up until suddenly Mesothulas changed his mind, and then it wasn’t.

Last time, Prowl had been too soft on Mesothulas—he’d liked him too much. He’d eased him into his new duties, slowly escalating the amount of energon he had to spill. That worked on most people. They’ll commit any atrocity you ask for, as long as it’s only just a little bit worse than the one before.

He wasn’t making that mistake this time. While Tarantulas was still malleable, still vulnerable, still dizzy with adoration and desperate to regain Prowl’s approval—Prowl had to make him do the worst thing he could imagine. Something so awful, that nothing else Tarantulas could possibly do would ever be worse.

“I do remember Ostaros.” Prowl let go of Tarantulas’s throat. Tarantulas swayed forward, following Prowl’s hand, as though he wanted to be choked again. Pathetic. Gorgeous. “I took him with me. He’s an Autobot now.”

“He's—still alive?”

“He is. He’s named Springer, now. ‘Ostaros’ was a stupid name.” (Tarantulas flinched, gaze wavering, but he didn’t argue.) “He’ll be coming to rescue me as soon as he figures out where I am, I’m sure. You’ll get to meet him.”

Tarantulas’s visor practically sparkled. “Oh! I—”

“When you do, you’ll kill him.”

Tarantulas stared at him. His strange rows of mandibles were frozen at irregular angles, as though he’d been caught with his mouth hanging open. “I… I don’t understand, I…”

“I will not have divided loyalties.” Prowl cupped Tarantulas’s face in his hand, running a thumb along a ridge over his cheek. “If you’re mine, then you’re  _mine._  No part of you will belong to anyone else.”

Prowl could see the exact moment Tarantulas decided he would obey Prowl’s order. It was the moment a light behind his visor died.

“… What does he look like, now.” Tarantulas’s voice was as hollow and toneless as Prowl’s.

Prowl tilted his helm in just that right way to imply a smile. “I’m sure you’ll know him when you see him.”

* * *

The Noisemaze was falling apart. From Prowl’s vantage point in Debris, he could see it convulsing and collapsing on itself. With one hand, Prowl stroked Tarantulas’s head, as Tarantulas sobbed brokenly. Tarantulas’s arms were flung around Prowl’s waist, filthy claws clutching pitifully at whatever kibble he could latch onto, rocking back and forth as he wailed. Prowl had heard the wail of a grieving parent before, but never from a Cybertronian. He wondered if Tarantulas even counted as a Cybertronian now.

With his other hand, Prowl carried Springer’s head.

Prowl was sorry for Tarantulas. He truly was. Prowl had always hated hurting him the most. But after this, everything else would come so much easier.

The Noisemaze was nothing but shreds and void by the time Tarantulas’s sobs grew silent and his convulsions reduced to mere trembling. Only then did Prowl speak.

“Welcome to the AJD.”

Tarantulas was silent.

After a long moment, he said, hoarsely, “I—w-we… we’re named for our hometowns, aren’t we? In the AJD. I… I was… truly… truly  _born_  in the Noisemaze, s-so… so, I guess…”

“No,” Prowl said. “No, people get names. You’re no longer a person. You’ve turned yourself into a beast.”

Tarantulas didn’t even wince. Something in Prowl shuddered at it—had he gone too far?—but he consoled himself: maybe Tarantulas was beyond pain, now. Everything would be easier from here on. Everything would be easier.

After another long silence, Tarantulas asked, “Then… what…? What’s my…?”

Prowl rubbed a thumb affectionately over one of his horns. “You’re my Pet.”

* * *

 

Now, they say there’s a monster in Petrex’s private quarters that lives under his berth.

It’s as black as Terminus’s gaping maw and has just as many fangs, and it’s just as likely to kill you. It’s a freak that used to be Cybertronian, but now it’s made of meat and metal, the metal rotting the meat and the meat rusting the metal, and it shambles around in the dark on too many legs, and it climbs the walls and ceiling and nests in the corners like a ghost trapped in the room where it died, trying to get free.

They say that Petrex can love; but his love is cruel, and cold, and it will suck the life out of you and leave you a husk of the mech you used to be before you caught his fevered gaze.

They say that when he finds somebody he wants, he chains them to himself with invisible ununtrium links, or ties them to himself with sinewy red threads, or, in one special case, webs them to him with sticky white silk.

They say that Petrex sleeps on a doorway, filled in with cement—a door that doesn’t go anywhere. He presses his hand to it when he sleeps.

Sometimes, something scratches on the door from underneath.

**Author's Note:**

> [Also on tumblr.](http://ckret2.tumblr.com/post/177424584082/the-door-in-petrexs-quarters)


End file.
